


When the River Meets the Sea

by Chaifootsteps



Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Banishment, Character Death, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Polyamory, Post Movie, Terminal Illnesses, The UrSkeks are very very dry beings., There's some brief group canoodling but it's about as erotic as a box factory., They are also in a species-wide polyamorous arrangement.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaifootsteps/pseuds/Chaifootsteps
Summary: Something is wrong with the UrSkeks.
Relationships: Fallen UrSkeks/Fallen UrSkeks, skekAyuk/skekEkt (Dark Crystal)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 62





	When the River Meets the Sea

The UrSkeks should be rejoicing in their completeness, they know.

Their life, strength, the euphoria of agelessness – agelessness that had always been theirs -- flowing through their perfect, luminescent forms. Freedom from the terrible wrongness that had been existence without it.

And the joy is there, certainly, but...smothered, choking beneath the unfathomable weight of all that has been and passed. The beings of Thra, who never showed them anything but good faith and generosity, lying ruined in their wake. Their dear comrades who will not be flying on with them, and the fate of whose souls remain a mystery to them.

(“Please, a moment!” OkAc pleads, staring back at Thra, now a distant pearl of color among the blackness of space and the pinprick of stars. “A moment is all I ask!” And they draw close to him, offering what fleeting comfort they can.)

There is all of this, and then there is the other matter, the one that lies inwards. They all feel it, but dare not speak of it, too painful to confront. Memories of two lives lived, ended in fear and panic and defeat – and a sense of grief so raw, it threatens to buckle them, sobbing, where they stand.

For the second time in their newly reformed existences, they look to UngIm for answers.

“Friends. Dearest ones. There is much to be mourned. We have been two, and flesh besides, and now we must learn to be as one again. But it will come. The pain and strangeness will pass and joy will be ours. For now, we shall rest here, among the coolness and quiet of stars. Draw strength and solace from one another, as we have always done. As we always will.”

And so the UrSkeks do, hanging suspended, drifting between time and space, pressed so close as to be one – and weep bitterly, for all that is lost, and for the time when they were not.

***

Beyond the grief, the guilt, and the eerie, inexplicable desire to reach in and feel for the seam where their souls have been knitted, there are practical considerations. Their split halves made many choices in the relatively brief time that they existed. Not all of them are easily understood now.

Their greatest sympathies are reserved for EktUtt, AyukAmaj, and NaNol. The Skeksis Ornamentalist and Gourmand were adamantly and ardently possessive of one another from the first trine of their separation up to the last hours, while the urRu Cook and Herbalist spent their latter trine wishing fervently, in soft, secret tones, for a different future in which they might be free to pass on and return to Thra together. On an academic level, one familiar with the workings of mortals, they can understand this perfectly well – to their UrSkek sensibilities, it seems stilted and strange. UrSkeks are both specific on when and how pleasurable congress can be attained and in a bonded relationship with every other UrSkek.

The group doesn't consider it a concern, but they're all aware that they should. Those back on home certainly will.

“It rests with the past now,” NaNol insists. “We have no desire to hoard each other's company or place meaningless restrictions on each other's actions.” And the others agree.

“Corporeal concerns for corporeal beings,” EktUtt adds.

“A regrettable consequence of a brief, fearful existence,” AyukAmaj promises. “Our eyes are clear now, and we choose one another in equal measures. We choose all of _you._ ”

The others reach out to them, and they all wrap each other in their mutual light. There, in that shining space, they experience such comfort and completion, and it's very true...their corporeal halves could never have understood. But they share a thread of an unspoken thought, a shameful one. And perhaps it should come as no surprise that SilSol is the one to venture it aloud.

“We would have understood, had you reached a different conclusion.”

“SilSol,” says UngIm gently.

“I _would_ have. We _have_ changed. I believe nothing will come without acceptance of this.”

UngIm bends the outer edges of his being in on himself; a substitute for folding his hand. There is an irony to what SilSol states, even grounds for accusation, but ultimately, will do no good to speculate on the cause of the failed experiment that rent them all asunder in the first place.

“I believe,” he ventures at last, “that we must find a way to reconcile what we have learned, without losing sight of the just reason for our banishment.”

The agreement that passes between them is warm and reassuring. After all, they have learned so much more than any UrSkek could have ever conceived, and now, they will return it home for the good of all UrSkeks. What has been made wrong can never be made right, but amends shall be made nonetheless, and the mistakes of the past shall not be repeated. And the future will be brighter because of it. And so they streak through the infinite cosmos as a unified beam of light, shining, exuberant in their togetherness.

Yes. Yes. It _will_ be alright now. They _will_ make certain of it.

All will be right.

All will be well.

***

They travel onwards, heedless of all time, whether a minute has passed on Thra or a thousand trine. When they feel the need to replenish their energy, they drift, holding onto one another so as not to float apart. And when they drift, they dream.

They dream of home, much to their longing delight. They dream the way the urRu did, in half-formed shapes and names, in things that may or may not be visions of things to come; they dream the way the Skeksis did before they began their consumption of the Crystal, all soaring emotions and sensations vivid enough to touch and taste. When they wake, they enfold hands and share their dreams with one another, as well as speculations as to what they may conceivably mean.

“Is it normal?” ShodYod wonders for all of them. “You don't suppose...”  
  


It's a very real concern. To dream _like_ the urRu and Skeksis is one matter...to wander the streams and inlets of the Mystic Valley, or awaken to the taste of roast nebrie quite another.

“No, certainly it must be,” says ZokZah. “We are overflowing with memories. We should have more cause for concern if we did _not._ ”

It's a reasonable conclusion. The logic airtight. Other than community, nothing comforts an UrSkek more than sound, practical logic.

The dreams continue to come.

And the UrSkeks continue to let them.

***

Somewhere past the Lyre Galaxy, halfway to home, EktUtt awakens weeping. He tries to hide it, but UrSkeks cry through the singing of their cores, with every particle of light that composes them. His sorrow saturates the very air around him, and the enfolding light of his comrades does little to quiet the sobs that wrack his shining body.

Of course, after he does quiet, embarrassment is quick to follow. Contrition.

“Friends, please. We've put this matter to rest. Just an absurd dream. The long journey has affected me, perhaps, and made me feel more keenly. ”

Keeping secrets from one's group is frowned on...from one's traveling group, a crime.

But they haven't touched down home yet.

“You are under no obligation to tell us,” declares UngIm, softly. “Or to silence yourself. It is your choice. And you will have us just the same.”

EktUtt looks away from them, long fingers toying against one another.

“...I was sewing pleats and drinking tea.”

In the most objective sense, it is a ridiculous thing. Not a single one of them calls it so.

“It will pass,” OkAc vows gently, running tendrils through tendrils. “We all get them.”

Yes, they agree.

They all get them.

***

UngIm forbids it at first, on the grounds that they should reintroduce themselves to pleasure and temptation slowly and mindfully. SilSol reminds him that watching their step too closely will harm them, and that perhaps UngIm has been away from home from so long as to forget that the UrSkeks loved celebrations. The rest agree heartily, and eventually, even UngIm sees the logic in it.

With familiar nebulae around them and the star-chart that will lead them home laid out, they dance. Not the way they used to before the Fall or as Skeksis – with pride and arrogance, all self-aggrandizing flourish, but light and nonsensical nonetheless. They flit like embers, roll over and over like summer storms, every movement one of liquid laughter. They catch one another and spin around, and only by and by and once when they've quite had their fill of that do they begin to cross coronal bands. They enter a space of such immense pleasure, unbound by such corporeal restrictions as a limited number of nerve endings, sharing and receiving on a continuous, harmonious loop. When it crests, they voice their delight in singing cries, and find it taken up, and celebrated, ringing throughout the space between stars.

Soon, their world will be the collective, expanding as far as the horizon can see, each UrSkek a supportive tether keeping them safely lashed to the ground. But for now, this final time, their world begins and ends with one another – the only ones who will ever truly understand.

And they revel in floating free.

***

The first sense that moves forth to welcome them home is smell.

From the very moment they touch down, it encompasses them like a jubilant, tearful embrace. Even before they materialize, they smell it – the bright, clean scent of a clear midday rising from the warmed ground, and the winds carried in from over distant fresh waters. And when it fades, there, towering over them is a sight they would have traveled a thousand ages for –

The great, shining white of their own beloved Crystal.

It doesn't take long. The other UrSkeks rush to meet them. Sounds of confusion at first, dawning recognition...and then, in the way of their kind, joyful comprehension, passed on like music through the air. They wind around each other, embrace with their arms and with the far more expansive reach of their minds, and though the homecomers have not had the pleasure of meeting each face that comes before them, with a single touch, they find that they know them – and know how very dearly they have been missed.

“Welcome! Have welcome, always!”

“Oh, friends...unfortunate and dearest lost ones...”

“Welcome home!”

“Have you sustained yourselves? You must be exhausted!”

UngIm folds his long, thin arms and bows his head, and the rest follow suit, allowing him – achingly grateful, in fact – to speak for them all.

“Comrades, friends. No greater joy may dwell within us than to see you all, and to stand before our beloved Crystal once more. It was arrogant folly that led to our being cast out in the first place, and we have committed many more still in our journey beyond the suns...but we have learned from our errors, and have returned in hopes that we may devote the rest of our existences to living for the benefit of all.”

The vast, communal uprising of approval, of warmth and love, is one they have waited ten thousand turn for.

They vow to one another, as one, that they will never forsake it again.

***

First and foremost, they are allowed a moment with the Crystal. It's far larger than the one on Thra, brighter, and much, much older – a Crystal that would never have tolerated their conceitful abuses upon it. They circle around it, replenishing their weary spirits in its light, sharing with it their love, their gratitude, their feeling of completion in reuniting with it. Their regret, too, for all that they inflicted on its distant counterpart – a promise to do better.

When this is concluded, they allow themselves to be bundled off by the other UrSkeks to the nearest Hall of Interlude. They rest beneath focused beams of supplementary sunlight, warming and strengthening themselves all at once, while sharing tales of their travels with their kind and hearing tales transpired in their absence. They slake curiosities, as many as they can cope with, on the nature of their divided state; what it felt like then, what it feels like now. This is not a formal sharing meant for reflection and betterment – that will come later, when the Speakers arrive – but a time for reunion, for rejuvenation.

“There were 18 of you, when you set out. What became of the others?”

A time, inevitably, for sorrow.

They explain all that has come to pass. The discovery of Thra, the Crystal of Truth, the division. The great courage and compassion of Thra's creatures, who saw them made whole again, and the loss of those for whom reunification came too late. The other UrSkeks bow their heads.

“SoSu was always a troubled being. Brilliant, but ambitious and arrogant. Such a terrible shame.”

“But GraGoh! GraGoh was ever laughing, and generous...”

“TekTih was of a great mind. TekTih would have done greater still, if only...”

“Do you recall? On the day of departure, LiLii promised to return with frivolous stories.”

“Oh, YiYat...YiYat, my dear friend...”

“They lived well,” SilSol answers softly. “For all their faults, they lived admirably. More than some of us will ever claim.”

In what seems no time at all, it occurs the artificial lights have been lit, and that the suns have long ago dipped below the horizons.

“We apologize,” says HokSih, who has always been valued for their empathy. “We have demanded much of you. Come, if you will. Rest with us.”

For the first time in time immemorial, the group settle out of their shaped forms and sleep like UrSkeks should -- at the center of the communal resting chamber where they drift like shining fog over the ground, surrounded by fellow UrSkeks. Often, during their departure, they wondered what it would be like, the first sleep home again. They wondered if they would even be allowed, and if so, whether sleep would be easy in coming.

They needn't have worried. Scarcely have they shed their forms than the warmth and love of others sends them dreaming. And this time, for the first time since leaving Thra, no shadows wait to haunt them.

***

The arrival of the Speakers is always an early affair, and it comes as no surprise to any of the Fallen when they're summoned not by word, but by mental beckoning, sharp and unmistakable as a siren. As soon as they finish taking First Sustenance and not a moment later.

This much is strange, they all note. But not to worry. A trip to the Grand Hall, the communal sharing to follow, is one of inevitable tension, but the Speakers are just. Their job is not to pass down judgment...rather, their will is the will of all UrSkeks. And the UrSkeks, as they have noted, have already accepted them back with open arms.

Yes, they assure each other. The Speakers are just. The Speakers are merely adhering to formalities.

It will be just fine.

***

The Grand Hall is cold, more Crystal than metal.

The Grand Hall is vast, swallowing them all.

And the Speakers are pitiless, wasting no time.

“We cannot and will not allow you to remain.”

Panic ripples among them, feeding back upon itself like a serpent. Frantic, they turn to UngIm, who has hitherto soothed their fears with such effortless calm.

“Speakers!” he implores. “Benevolent ones! We have done all that you asked. We have come to understand our darker natures, and to master them, such that they will never--”

“Perhaps you understand less than you think, UngIm.” The Physician quiets, more out of shock than anything. It is a deep breech of etiquette for one UrSkek to interrupt another. “Understand, your exile was handed down that you might master your darker selves. Instead, you allowed them to consume you completely.”

“Correct. You allowed your darker selves to become manifest. To roam free for an age of this planet you speak of. To harm a _Crystal_.”

AyukAmaj's voice breaks from the group. “Not intentionally! Never! Speakers, we have _seen_ the consequences of our own faults left unhibited, before our own eyes! We will carry those memories for all time.”

Emboldened, ZokZah chimes in. “No other UrSkek carries the burden of such experience. We wish to share our knowledge, so that no UrSkek ever might!”

The First Speaker raises a hand for silence.

“Your intentions, such that you describe them to us, are noble. But the mere fact of your division, and the scars you retain, are more insidious and dangerous to UrSkek kind than any knowledge gained may hope to quell. To allow you to remain would threaten the lives of all.”

Again, the others look to UngIm, desperate for the sequence of words that will change all of this. They find him silent, eyes wide, and something they've never before seen in him – utterly lost.

“There will be a Ceremony of Passing for your lost comrades,” says the Second Speaker. “For the reasons stated, we naturally cannot allow you to take part as Singers. But you may view the proceedings from a safe and prescribed distance. And if you wish, you may sing your memories into etching, such that they will be recorded.”

“And then,” says the First Speaker, ”you must depart. We will allow you to do so with dignity, without public viewing or castigation.”

The UrSkeks look amongst one another, cold and sick and speechless. They understand the protocols, the correct thing to do, the ritual bowing of heads and acceptance of the verdict. The absolutely unthinkable.

But in the midst of it, UngIm finds his voice.

“How... _dare you?_ ” His mouth never moves, and yet, there is the sense that he has to wrench his jaw apart to speak. They feel it, the very air around him growing hotter, sprouting microscopic teeth. “Callous, deluded fools. How _**dare**_ you?”

“Speak freely, UngIm,” said the Third Speaker. “Though one might suggest caution, if you truly believe such a display will change minds.”

The tension that winds through UngIm is palpable enough that they would sense if it even if it weren't for the connection their ages of closeness have intensified. They come precariously close to slipping from their formal stances, frantic now, unsure as to whether to pull back or draw near...to feel horror at his anger or to fuel it with their own.

“ _Speakers_ ,” he tries again. “See reason. Have patience. We have stood back amongst you for less than a single day. Surely, we might be permitted some measure of time in which to prove ourselves. Supervise us if you must. Withhold permission to sing for our fallen, if you truly feel it necessary. But we urge you, do not give in to panic, such that you hold it over mercy and knowledge.”

“Please,” SilSol adds. “We implore you, hold fast to the values UrSkeks have always worked tirelessly to nurture in one another.”

The Speakers are silent, exchanging thoughts without a word. The group hangs on it, expecting a lengthy deliberation.

But the verdict is immediate.

“The safety of all UrSkeks must come first.”

UngIm slams his palm against the stone so violently, it echoes throughout the spires.

“Cruel, cold creatures! _Cowards!_ ”

NaNol joins in. “For countless turns, we have worked towards nothing, _nothing_ save striving towards betterment for the homeworld's sake.”

“All to reach this end?” SilSol takes up. “Cast out the moment we return for an event beyond our control? Our knowledge?”

“Perhaps we overestimated your stability. At present, you give us little reason to believe any of you might safely take part in the Ceremony of Passing in any capacity.”

“Ceremony?!” shouts OkAc. “I would sooner perish than see LachSen paid such hollow tribute by beings who would have _discarded_ them had they lived!”

The Speakers rise, arms crossed over their chest, and speak as one.

“ _Enough._ We initially thought you unfit to live among us, and so you cement yourselves now. You are blighted. You may choose to abide by the rituals and depart with dignity, or you may depart now, and be forever etched as a warning.”

UngIm flares wider than the sum of his materialized form. Indeed, in the gathering light of shapes being cast off for rapid travel., appears larger than ever before.

“Rule long, foolish Speakers! We depart in knowing it is not _we_ who succumb to our darkest natures.”

They rise. They leave their home behind them.

And this time, they do not look back.

***

It's not until the homeworld is well behind them that they calm enough to feel the first consequences of their decision. Traveling without the aid of a Crystal – _their Crystal, the one they will never see again_ – is taxing, and they have been weary ever since they left Thra.

They fall into the beams of the first sun they can find, a small red one that will have to do, and drift, utterly depleted.

_What will we do?_ is the sentiment they share. _Where will we go?_

It is not UngIm who answers with the deliberateness only spoken words can offer – UngIm, who has been silent since they departed, keeping his thoughts to himself, seemingly falling upon the fact that he is now free to do so – but SilSol, for whom words come naturally.

“Friends. All is not lost. We have each other...we have always had each other. Perhaps we have always had this, and no other, and are only now in our darkest hour realizing it. We are betrayed and we are wronged, but the stars stretch on and on, and we will find a way! We will find a place where joy will come again. This I can assure you.”

“The Singer speaks truth,” EktUtt says. “Do you recall what the Observer said on the day we first left Homeworld?”

“Insight is the greatest dread of fools?” NaNol supplies.

“Yes. But rather, that we have life. And where there is life, there is hope for good fortune still to come.”

A mere day ago, the mention of TekTih would have threaded sorrow among the ranks – a reminder of the one among them they had failed the most egregiously. Now, it lifts them, gives them just a taste of hope, both the sentiment itself and the knowledge that TekTih would have reveled in all of this, just the slightest.

“This is true!” OkAc speaks. “We are not the first to be banished. We will not be the last. And what good would it have served us, striving for the approval of a kind that gave up on us twice?”

They all put in a metaphysical hand to contribute a whisp of reassurance. Yes...yes, it _will_ be alright still. Perhaps not in the way that they envisioned, but they are UrSkeks, and they are UrSkeks of thought, so much so that it's frightened the rest of their kind into shunning them, and they have an eternity in which to figure out all the rest. So they will drift, and replenish, and they will find a way.

They will tell UngIm when at last he apologizes profusely that he needn't, he need't. Of course he needn't. He spoke for all, and they have no regrets. He is _their_ Speaker and they want for no other.

  
And when they quiet for sleep, and recall that the sea of loving UrSkek forms wound around them is one they will never know again, they will weep softly. But they will weep together.

The rest, only in time.

***

The first order of business, they conclude, is to find another planet with a Crystal. The thought is unnerving, considering all that has come to pass, but there's nothing else for it – they can find a way to live happily cut off from the UrSkek collective, but not without the light of a Crystal. As they travel on through time and space, they make plans, growing more ambitious as they themselves grow bolder.

“Not all planets containing Crystals are inhabited by sentient beings,” ZokZah reasons. “This much we know. If we located one devoid of such life, there would be no harm done in making our own way.”

“We might even establish our own homeworld,” SilSol ventures. “A place where unjustly banished UrSkeks might share ideas freely and the faults of the past are to be studied carefully -- not hidden away so that they might be repeated.”

“Caution, SilSol,” says AyukAmaj. “A noble idea, and I agree, but SoSu also talked of replicating homeworld. And look what became of that.”

“SoSu was also in favor of converting their mountains. SoSu had many grand and admirable ideas, and may in time have learned to temper them with compassion for the smallest of life forms. We will never know, but we may learn in our fallen companion's stead.”

Travel on, absorb light and rest. Travel on, absorb and rest. Discuss. Debate. Every now and then, their dreaming state interrupted by someone jolting upright, frantic and confused, sometimes weeping, sometimes not, but always violently enough to disturb the chain where they grasp one another. They give comfort, and by and by, even this becomes routine. They jest, softly, about how they're becoming very skilled at it indeed.

And then it happens.

EktUtt, in the middle of travel, starts to scream.

***

It's a terrible, excruciating sound, like an animal with a broken bone. They used to shudder to hear such sounds on Thra, a Gelfling in agony or a Landstrider felled on the plains, off in the forests or in the night, and perceive with great horror the crudeness and rawness of organic death.

EktUtt screams three times. Unmoved and untouched by the sounds of their voices, their attempts to ask what's wrong, flinching from their tendrils of energy – until AyukAmaj, suddenly, like something has broken, reaches out and embraces him with his very being. Then, only then, the way a doused fire still steams, the Designer's cries cut off into soft shudders...blunted, but not quite relieved.

“Designer,” SilSol implores. “Please, tell us what we might do to aid you!”

But EktUtt, when he speaks, speaks to AyukAmaj alone.

“Tell me,” he says, very softly. “Whether or not you feel it too.”

“...”

“Please...your honest answer.”

“...Always.”

And then comes the relief. The deepest, most relieved shudder they have ever been privy to witness.

“Thanks be to the Crystal...I would not...have begun to known where to turn if you had not.”

***

They make no progress on their journey that day. EktUtt tells them everything...the nightmares that grow more frequent, the weight in his core. The sense of mourning that worsens with time rather than abates.

“Why did you not tell us?” says ZokZah. “We might have uncovered some answer. Offered you some manner of assistance.”

“I have no doubt, and I cherish your concern, dearest ones,” says EktUtt, still enfolded in AyukAmaj's embrace as though for fear that leaving it might trigger another attack. “But...I truly do not think you could have.” Grasping tighter to the Culinarian, “In truth, I want nothing more than for you to hold me. It rends at me.”

“You should have told me, at the very least. I want to hold you too. I would have held you as long as you wanted.”

“...Not you specifically.”

The implication sits among them like a draft of sudden cold.

“...NaNol?” inquires SilSol, because someone must.

“Not I,” NaNol answers quickly, and a little thankfully. “My dreams of the castle linger, but they feature baser yearnings. The Mystic Numerologist has not featured thus far.”

This comes as no surprise to any among them. In the earliest period following reunification, their dreams of Mystic life were tinged with bittersweet, but no one has confessed to one in quite some time. The Mystics' memories reveal that while most at some point or other entertained idle dreams and hopes of a life that did not end in fusion to the Skeksis, they also understood the need for it, and soothed themselves with thoughts of wholeness. It stands to reason that their halves lie quiet and obliging now.

“...I must confess, I feel it as well,” says UngIm at last. “Not in the sense of longing for another, but the rage, a sense of deep and burning injustice. I recall myself from before. I know my own rage well. This is something else entirely.”

“I too experience difficult days,” OkAc admits. “A yearning for things my darker half held dear, petty and small. But more than that...I suppose it could be called a type of suffocation. A deeply... _very_ troubling desire to claw my own being and expose my core to the air.”

All the UrSkeks grow very quiet, and remain so for a very long while.

“Friends,” says ZokZah. “I believe we may have acted in grievous error. As purging our flawed halves once proved dangerous and fruitless, so has suppressing them made them stronger. The Skeksis fought the end of their existence to the last...rather than fighting them still, we must make peace not simply with our own courser natures, but the creatures said natures manifested themselves as. The lives they lived, and the end of said lives. We must exist together in harmony.”

It's a solution in a barren land where no other exists, and they receive it with an enthusiasm tinged with desperation. All save SilSol.

“A gracious theory, to be sure. But remember, the Skeksis were ravenous and rapacious creatures. If they do indeed possess the capacity to desire even now, and we grant it to them, I fear they will never be satiated.”

SilSol, for all the surreptitiousness that lies behind him, can be very translucent. If any of their darknesses had manifested in skekSil the Chamberlain, they would be saying the very same thing. ZokZah knows this. All of them know it.

“I understand your concerns, dear Singer. But what choice do we have?” When such assurance does precious little to ease the bristling tension in that energy field... “You are _yourself_ , SilSol. SkekSil cannot take that from you. Not during the division. Not now.”

“...Of course. Of course.”

They travel on once more, EktUtt and AyukAmaj pressed close to one another's side. This time, when the dreaming state finds them, it finds them all peacefully.

***

Still, in the immediate wake of the incident, the UrSkeks can't help but exist in a state of tentativeness. Every dream of castle days past is once again shared and discussed, taken as a sign of the Skeksis threatening to consume them. Every mood swing that finds them just a little too suddenly, every unexpected impulse is fretted over. But time passes, galaxies enter their horizons and then grow smaller behind them, and they feel no more or less in possession of their own souls than they did when they first left Thra behind. And gradually, they begin to warm to those fragments of the Skeksis that remain.

“SkekUng's anger was bolstered by a fierce sense of justice,” NaNol points out to UngIm. “A fine quality to have in our Speaker.”

“And skekNa's cruelty came with no shortage of cunning,” UngIm responds. “He was willing to question, and difficult to deceive.”

EktUtt and AyukAmaj admit the grief is still there. Some days are more difficult than others. It's entirely possible, they grant, that they always will be.

“They truly cherished each other,” AyukAmaj reflects wistfully. “In spite of every flaw in their natures, they were better for having each other.”

“They still cherish each other, even now,” EktUtt adds. “Struggle though it may be for you and I, I think I would prefer to cope with the grief than the knowledge that they no longer matter to one another.”

“I agree.”

Little by little, their days become days of deep content, bright with possibility for the future. Each galactic boundary they cross is novel to them, each star system filled with new and exciting constellations to discover.

“A Crystal waits nearby,” says ShodYod one day, quite out of nowhere. “A planet uninhabited by sentient lifeforms. ”

It stops them where they fly. ShodYod never speaks unless he has a reason to.

“Are you very certain?” UngIm asks, though he needn't. TekTih was their navigator, but ShodYod was the one who held entire star maps in his head.

“Very.”

From that point on, they travel behind ShodYod.

It's a fortunate thing, too. UrSkeks, though they are made of pure energy and can exist almost indefinitely on just enough absorbed radiation and light to bind it all together, are simply not meant to exist away from a Crystal. It wears on them, douses their inner light and dampens their spirits. They take longer to awaken from their dreaming states these days, and when they do, their cores are heavy and tired.

“All the more cruel of the Speakers to cast us out when they did,” SilSol says. “Just several more days in the light of the Crystal. Enough to gain our strength for the journey to come. It would have harmed nothing and no one.”

They luxuriate in it, the freedom to agree with such a thing.

And finally, like a choir in the impenetrable dark, they hear _it_. The high, clear, unmistakable song of a Crystal.

Their destination is a little gold and green planet, not as blue as Thra, but struck through with crescents of vibrant topaz. Most importantly, it is orbited by three suns and three moons, as clear and familiar a beacon as any that this world bears a Crystal, and so great is their laughter song, the dipping and spinning of their ethereal bodies through the velvet sky that they require UngIm to bring them back to focus, like a gaggle of impudent Newly Emerged.

“Soon! Soon, and then our time of laughter will be without end!”

It's tiring without the river of light that flows during a Great Conjunction. Time escapes ageless beings such as they are, and it's not until the moment when they're forced to pool their resources to create a channel downwards that they realize how long they've been away, how very little they possess. But the thought of it, the very idea of journey's end is more rejuvenating than any ray of sun, and in a flash, a blinding flurry of light...

And just like that, there it is. No fanfare this time around, no creatures standing around them...just an empty grotto in one of the many canyons that could be seen from the sky. And there before them, the finest welcoming party any being ever hoped for, stands a young Crystal, shining and abundant and new.

The UrSkeks smile cracked, exhausted smiles, like UrSkeks -- not with their mouths, but with every particle of light that comprises them. UngIm straightens, holds out his weary arms, and glows to rival the young suns above them.

“My friends. _Welcome home.”_

***

First things come first.

Before anything else, they scrutinize every inch of their new world, searching for evidence that the planet was not as uninhabited as ShodYod believed it. The thought of having to travel on yet again fills them with unspeakable dread, would be more than their bodies could take, but they would, _must_ , and they know it full well. The relief that comes of finding no one, just endless plain and forest and an abundance of wildlife is staggering and bolstering.

They sing themselves a home surrounding the new Crystal. With the castle and the crimes committed there still fresh in their memories, they draw upon one of homeworld's more modest designs – a great triangular spire. Clean and reflective, a testament to new beginnings, and the pathway shared by all things.

The world outside their gleaming walls beckons the way Thra once beckoned. There are so many, many things they long to do, plans they long to make. Instead, their bodies cave to the need to rest.

When they awaken again, they find that 10 trine have passed. No sentient species have moved in, but a good deal more forest has grown up around their spire, and the north end of the canyon has washed out and created a small creek.

They sing the fallen leaves from the path leading to their doorway and begin etching out an account of their story, from the first banishment to their settling here. When they aren't engrossed in this, they're hard at work making records of every new plant and creature that crosses their collective path. ShodYod draws maps of the stars above them. SilSol and EktUtt find inspiration for their crafts in every new revelation nature offers them; the white-eyed beasts that hide among the rocks of this planet's waterways and particularly in the strange, spiraling wood of its trees.

They create. They flourish. And by and by, they find that what SilSol vowed is true...happiness, so long in coming, is theirs once again.

And then the pains begin.

***

It is OkAc who succumbs first.

OkAc, alone in his new library, the dearest thing in his life, reconsidering for the umpteenth time how the tomes should be arranged, and whether he wants to shelve them as he did on homeworld, Thra, or throw caution to the wind and try something entirely new.

OkAc who will find his name in their records as the first to be struck down.

They all hear him screaming, but more than that, they feel the violent waves of his agony. When they find him, he hangs low in the air, his colors muted and silhouette ragged. EktUtt takes his head, stroking his fronds, as UngIm inspects him, tapping into their shared sensations when OkAc's attempts to speak fracture into gasps and groans.

The problem, as quickly becomes apparent, is his core – erratic in its rotation, flaring hot and then shrinking down faint and tepid. UngIm sings healing to it, soothing it, straightening its painful ripples and knots and gently correcting its path, until it rights itself, and OkAc's cries fade into whimpers.

“Hush now. There you are, Chronicler. We have you. All is well again.”

They stay with him all night, stroking him with luminescent hands and gently, softly chiding him for pushing himself too hard. When he wakes the next day, all that remains is a dull ache, and he apologizes for worrying them so.

But three days later, it hits UngIm. He's nowhere near the castle when it happens, lying in a crumpled, translucent heap by the woodline, and when they reach for his core to calm it, he lashes out at them with an ugly, sharpened spike of volatile energy that scatters the light forming the ends of their robes.

“SilSol!” ZokZah urges. And SilSol sings.

It's an old, well-known song from their homeworld, its effects as precise and specific as an arrow, and enough to have most corporeal creatures sleeping three words in; most UrSkeks by the end of the third verse. UngIm lasts three verses.

His core is already relaxing by the time they reach to correct it. In silence, they carry their Physician home.

Plans for their new world come to a halt. Even discussions on what to name it are shelved as they turn to every resource they possess. UngIm, from the moment he wakes, begins pouring through every store of medical knowledge he has regarding the UrSkek core, and collaborates with SilSol on songs to calm it. There's even talk of making the journey back to homeworld, in hopes that the physicians there will know something they do not.

“I advise against wasting precious energy, friends,” OkAc says. “I suspect they always knew.”

It seems a lifetime ago that the merest insinuation of such a thing would see voices raised, appalled at the idea of an UrSkek knowingly undertaking any action that could harm another UrSkek so deliberately. Instead, UngIm raises a exhausted hand. “Please continue, Chronicler”

“The songs? The old cautionary tales? UrSkeks falling victim to selfish impulses, and the blackness of space swallowing them whole. Or their wickedness manifesting on their shoulder, or in their core, and plucking out their eyes. Oh, yes...We're far from the first UrSkeks to divide. Nor the first to suffer what follows after.”

“With all due respect to your theory, Chronicler, songs and stories prove nothing. Most storytellers speak in broad analogy.”

“Begging pardon, Designer. Most storytellers who employ metaphors of death taking the form of dark, long limbed birds do not _become_ them.”

NaNol brings them to the practical point. “An irrelevant matter, for our current purposes. Do they ever speak of a cure?”

“There _is_ talk of an herbal smoke that calms imbalances...”

***

By the time the black and yellow creatures they never settled on a name for begin their migration overhead, every one of the UrSkeks will have collapsed in utter agony. Always with a core that fights to tear itself in two.

By the time the season is halfway gone, most of them will have suffered three.

***

EktUtt wakes suddenly to a darkened hall, a crystal ceiling, a sea of hazy white bodies...

And AyukAmaj watching him through the dark.

His eyes widen, hands flying to his mouth – but the Culinarian grasps his wrist, shaking his head. He pulls him urgently, and EktUtt can't follow fast enough, albeit with movements stilted and unsure. They don't venture far, just around the corner and into the hall, where the crystal window branches tall and the moons are shining brightly.

EktUtt cups AyukAmaj's face, not with a strand of energy, but with his long hands. His voice is that of EktUtt the Designer, but the soft quaver it carries...

“Is this you?”

AyukAmaj chuckles, warm and thick.

“It's me, crawlie dumpling.”

EktUtt wails, like an UrSkek does not, and before the sound can wake anyone the next room over, pitches forward into the Culinarian's glowing chest. AyukAmaj holds him close as raw, heaving sobs wrack his body, stroking the strange, branching filaments of his head.

“I know,” he says, ethereal eyes dry, but throat full of tears. “I know...Oh Thra, love, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry I couldn't protect you. If I'd have known--”

“Don't,” rasps EktUtt. “I don't care about that. I couldn't protect you either.”

“I don't know how much time we have. Or why this is happening. I don't...I don't know—”

“Please! Please, don't say it... I know. I understand.”

AyukAmaj tugs him upwards, beckoning him to raise his head, and once he's done so, presses their foreheads together tight, as though their very souls depend on it.

“SkekEkt? Listen to me. I love you so much. I've always been here. Please remember that. No matter what happens, I will always, _always_ love you, and my soul will _never_ stop trying to reach yours.”

EktUtt rubs their foreheads, snagging smaller filaments, disregarding the presence of their lips entirely in favor of pressing cheek to cheek.

“I love you too. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You always will be.”

“SkekEkt...”

“You made my life perfect. SkekAyuk. _My_ skekAyuk. And I'm never going to be anything but yours.”

“Never, never.”

They touch one another as though the world will end the moment they stop. Twisted hands with their long, soft, tapering fingers roam arbitrarily, greedily, over strange faces and wrinkled, unfamiliar lips. EktUtt laughs, but it's a broken sound, high pitched, a little frantic.

“I don't want this to be the last time you see me. This hideous face...”

“It's the same face as mine!” says AyukAmaj, laughing in a way that's more akin to mourning. “What did I just tell you? This isn't the end. It's awful, rotten, but it's not the end. I refuse to let it be.”

“I wish we'd run away while we had the chance.”

“Oh, skekEkt--”

“I wish we'd gotten as far away from that awful castle as possible. We would be living in some perfectly dreadful little shack, and I'd be sewing us robes out of Fizzgig hide, but I'd make it work, and you would have one paltry little stove, and we'd have a bed that took up the room--”

“We had to try, love. It could have all worked out perfectly. We had to try.”

“Please stay. I don't care if they find us. Please, don't let me go.”

“I won't. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here...”

***

When EktUtt and AyukAmaj wake, the brightest sun hangs small and red on the horizon. Their throats are thick and heavy..

And neither has any clue as to how they ended up in each other's arms.

***

The smoke cure alone does nothing. The ritual drench does less than nothing. But SilSol's songs help some, and when ZokZah recalls the exact method behind that meditative trance they used to treat inner turmoil back home, they almost dare to believe they've found a lasting solution.

Not long after that, however, SilSol starts losing small gaps of time. Finding himself clear on the other end of the Spire, with no memory as to how. NaNol follows, then OkAc.

“How foolish we were,” SilSol says, without heat. All resignation. “To ever believe we could outrun our consequences.”

They lose something of themselves after that.

Even when they discover that the trance coupled with the songs coupled with the warm, reflected light of the Crystal bathing their cores directly has all them feeling better than they have in cycles, UngIm calls a meeting. True to form for their Physician, their Speaker, they feel the weight of his sorrow long before he ever ventures a word.

“Friends. I do not believe that we will make it through this.”

It's as they knew it would be. It hurts no less to hear it aloud.

“...We may yet.”

“Very true, ShodYod. We may yet, and cultivate our new home for ages to come. But where hope springs eternal, I truly believe it in our best interest to make plans for all possible outcomes.”

They contemplate in quiet for a time.

“...We should hold a Ceremony of Passing,” says OkAc softly. “A proper one. For our fallen. They deserve better than what the homeworld surely offered them.”

No one challenges this, or suggests it frivolous when their own fates hang so precariously.

“A most excellent suggestion, Chronicler.”

“Should we consider dismantling the spire?” asks AyukAmaj. “Leaving the planet as we found it?”

“I would advise against it,” says SilSol. “We talked of other banished ones seeking it out. That may still hold true. They may make use of it yet.”

“We can continue to record our story for them,” EktUtt puts forth. “So they might know what took place here. And what came before.”

ZokZah nods. “Even if our conditions never worsen again, it will be something completed.”

“In the meantime,” says NaNol, glancing at ShodYod, “we can continue to search for treatments and cures. We have nothing to lose by doing so, and the progress we have made thus far may continue. We may be very surprised yet. That is my belief...careful planning without giving into despair.”

“Well spoken,” says ZokZah. “Yes. I agree.”

They look to UngIm. If he despairs at what they've come to, or the fact that all his ages of trusted UrSkek medical knowledge appear to have let him down, they don't feel it in his aura. For the precious here and now, the only guarantee any of them have been given, that will have to be enough.

“Well, then, friends. Onwards.”

***

The death of an UrSkek is an extremely rare occasion, just shy of unthinkable. As such, the Ceremony of Passing is cause for the entire planet to stop where it spins; less a celebration of life lived than a bound duty for those left behind.

Back home, tradition held that every UrSkek dwelling planet side would gather in a vast triangular formation surrounding the equally triangular Memorial Obelisk. Those nearest the deceased were to take place in center, where they might sing their memories into the wall of ceremonial crystal whose purity was rivaled only by _the_ Crystal. When the last trace of memory had been etched, they would settle into a mantra which would be taken up by all other UrSkeks, moving outwards in a ripple effect. This would be allowed to repeat again and again, as though to carry the souls of the lost higher and higher, until it faded into the atmosphere of homeworld and became a part of all things.

Such is the grandiose ceremony their own fallen deserve. They wonder what they would have made of it, this quieter adieu, undertaken on the last of the truly warm days this planet will see for some time. They wonder what memories have been sung in their honor back home.

Unable to locate crystal of sufficient purity, an obelisk is formed for their purposes out of what can be sung up from beneath the castle – the highest quality they can find. Set out on a hill overlooking the plains stretching golden below, it lacks the faultless refinement of an obelisk sung by homeworld Architects. As with so many things since their second banishment, it will have to be enough.

“GraGoh would have said it possesses a certain character,” OkAc muses, knowing better than to touch the sacred structure before the ceremony, but emitting a glow that falls softly on the polished surface. “He would have loved it.”

“SoSu would not have,” says ZokZah, not without affection. “We will weave it into his portion of the song, that all may know he deserved grander.”

And so they gather, their places about the obelisk as ancient and precise as the positioning of planets in their rotation. But their songs, as they rise, are without prescription, without planning. They allow their thoughts on the departed to fill their cores so completely as to displace even the fear of the future, and to flow from them, interweaving each impact left on their lives, on the very universe, directly into the crystal surface.

They sing for SaSan, who spent all three of her lives staring at the horizon, and all three following it, until it took her away.

For LiLii; their clever tongue, their fierce love of truth, and to that end, their humor so undervalued by homeworld and Thra alike.

For HakHom and their unquenchable passion for life and craft, for YiYa and their quiet ingenuity, and for their halves, who never had a chance to allow life on Thra to shape them, for good or for ill.

For LachSen and their solid pragmatism, their rough humor, and their place by OkAc's side, impossible to ever fill.

For GraGoh, the kindest of them all; for his split halves, that they might walk together wherever they are now.

For MalVa and his sense of honor, and his respect for every natural world he ever knew; for his halves, who so dearly loved Thra, and may, in the end, have always belonged there.

For VarMa and his boundless, irrepressible courage; his loyalty to his own kind, but to SoSu in particular.

For SoSu, who dreamed brighter and higher than any of them, and who never, never gave up on anything.

And lastly, they sing for TekTih, the most brilliant mind they ever knew, who will never hear their remorse. That his halves may find the peace that was denied them.

They sing their love, their grief, their fondest and most bittersweet memories; their regrets as well, without excuse or apology. They burn the fact of their lost ones' existences into something immovable and tangible, that great shining space.

They sing for ten names, but 20 lives.

And when not a word is left to be etched, they sing for themselves, that they might all meet again in some distant time, some beautiful place.

***

The cycles that follow are quiet. Grateful. And somehow, in spite of it all, contented.

Their health never reaches the pinnacle they once enjoyed, but their energy returns, and with it, the sound of their laughter-song. They absorb energy often, and moreover, delight in it. They spend the cold season within the walls of their home, occasionally leaving to drift among downy flakes for the sheer joy of it, but always returning to the task of committing records to crystal that has become their one great work.

They seldom speak directly of the fact that hangs over them like an opaque shroud, gray and unknowable, but talk often of life, and the nature of it. They come to take a sort of comfort in the lack of certainty.

“An arrogant delusion,” says ZokZah, “for any being to believe themselves entitled to eternity.”

UngIm folds his fingers together.

“Entitled to it? No. And yet, what is this, but a moment in eternity? And is not the nature of a moment to lead onto another yet moment?”

ShodYod always leaves the room when they talk this way. SilSol does at times, but not others.

They keep their eyes to the stars, listening for the songs of other Crystals, or of passing UrSkeks. When silence greets them, they listen faithfully for the song of this planet, hoping that it might at the very least share with them its name. They wonder, in their circles of contemplation, if there might be some greater reason for this – some knowledge the planet holds that they do not – or if it simply is what is.

When the warm days begin to come again, haltingly at first, they float in the radiant sun and watch the fat, rapid droplets that fall between the breaking of icicles.

And when the pains make their return, they hold each other tightly.

“It isn't fair,” ShodYod says. “It isn't fair...”

He cries out, his form warping with the fury of it; his call the kind that's forbidden on homeworld, not for the raw passion of it, but for the way it cracks stone and churns water.

They let him.

***

It is folly to push too hard, the UrSkeks fully realize, and to rush the record keeping. They know they should be taking things slowly, conserving what strength remains.

AyukAmaj attempts to remind them of this. “We might consider that, if words remain unsaid, it is not the end of all things. No matter what, we must trust in whoever follows us – be they our own halves or travelers passing by.”

But in the end, for all that they have changed, they remain UrSkeks, and it is simply against their natures to leave behind a mystery. Every time they believe they have recounted the tale to the best of their abilities, some forgotten detail arises...some piece in the greater puzzle that has been their lives. And so they etch as fast as their bodies will allow them, before they no longer have the capacity.

“ _'Cherished ones,”_ OkAc sings softly as they work. _“I see before me a great black bird/And I must go/And I must go/And I must go where no one goes.”_

They increase the frequency of their current treatments, and working in shifts, continue their search for a cure. UngIm – in secret, briefly, then with candidness -- takes to shedding his outer veil of light so as to take a long, contemplative look at his own core. The war that rages within it is impossible to see, save for a slight irregular jaggedness around the circumference.

“What do you suppose will become of us?” EktUtt wonders aloud one evening, as they all retire and the Physician returns from doing precisely this. “What if there is no second division, and even if there is, what if we simply become nothing?”

“Then that will be the way of it,” SilSol replies shortly. UngIm ventures a softer theory.

“Concerning the nature of our souls, Designer, I believe there is much we will never know...but if any consciousness ever had reason to fade, it was theirs. And still, they exist. Why, then, should we cease to be merely because our cores have?”

“Because we have been divided before,” supplies ShodYod, very quietly. “And we did become nothing.”

“Did we?”

“Are you asking us, UngIm? Or imparting some knowledge you possess and we lack?”

“Neither, dear Singer. I merely...wonder. For there is much to wonder.”

Nothing comforts an UrSkek more than sound, practical, airtight logic. As their futures continue to hold less and less of it, they are forced to devise new comforts from scratch.

And where faith fails them...

_'No pain,'_ they come to agree by night. _'Let us be together. Let it bring no pain.'_

***

Spring comes to the world softly, as though it means to treat them gently.

The last of the snow melts without caking hard and filthy. There are no last minute blizzards or surprise frosts to kill the new tender buds on the trees. Their dreams are now filled with visions of the castle corridors, and increasingly, forests only the Mystics ever roamed; their days, perpetual pain that occasionally comes in rapid, restless bursts. It's almost as though the Skeksis consciousnesses that dwell within them know something is coming, and are grasping for it for like a lifeline in a storm.

One by one, they add their closing remarks to the archive.

They're all sitting together, watching the rain fall on groggy spring grasses, when UngIm, having just finished his own, emerges from the library and joins them without a word.

And just like that, it is done.

***

For EktUtt and AyukAmaj, the end comes paradoxical. Only their pain diminishes when they're near to each other, and only they struggle with the knowledge of what that means. When they all still had the strength to do so, they sought congress with the other UrSkeks often, happily crossing coronal bands at any opportunity. No one ever needed to ask why.

One warm, calm night when the stars are especially bright, their treatments effective, and they all lay about in each other's tendrils, the Designer tells them nonetheless.

“I cannot speak for the Culinarian, but if we are to divide again, our halves that seek to be together _will_ be. But the desire for you all...that is mine and mine alone. And I wanted to have you as myself, while I still could.”

On the other side of the formless tangle, AyukAmaj pulses affirmative, then smiles through the glow of himself. “It brings a comfort, of sorts, to think of them together once more. And do you know something? If our Skeksis and urRu were free to choose each other over all others, then I should like to choose all of you. Not the Speakers, not all of homeworld...just you, and this astounding adventure we have made together.”

As one great quilt of light, they enfold both Designer and Culinarian into their center, and cocoon them warmly. The days of exchanging particles to the point of rapture may be long behind them, but the quiet intimacy of intertwining this way, sharing their affection like ripples on the water, is one they can hold tight to as long as they all have a life force.

“How very fortunate we are to have had this time as ourselves,” says NaNol. “To have had you both, just for a while.”

“Our dearest Designer. Our beloved Culinarian,” says OkAc.

“And we thank you,” smiles EktUtt.

“Now,” chuckles AyukAmaj. “Please...no more talk of endings. Just hold us close as you can”

And they do.

***

“I am frightened,” says ShodYod.

“I know,” answers ZokZah, drifting low, so that the Assessor might rest against him. “I am as well.”

“...Permission to say something very selfish indeed, Ritualist.”

“Please do.”

“Why me?” ZokZah's slow, stroking hand slows its motions against the other's brow, then resumes them. “My dark half never feared reunification, not the way the others did. The Numerologist was at peace with it. Neither would have fought against it after it had already occurred. So why, Ritualist, am I dying?”

“If I had an answer, my friend, I would give it to you.”

“But why? Where is the sense to it?”

ZokZah watches the light play across the wall. “Do you recall how those of Thra spoke of a song? A role to play, a vital one, beyond understanding.”

“I wish that I had never reformed. I would sooner have had no second life at all, then to have it and lose it in this way.”

ZokZah can only hold him close.

***

SilSol claims no surprise when his pain comes on hard and fast, and remains so for days on end. They take turns bringing him treatments, and by and by, his condition creeps back to levels of agony approaching tolerable. OkAc comes upon him near the garden, glowing a bitter gray,

“...Are you alright, Singer?”

“I am not.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“...Look at us, OkAc. A thousand ages come to this. That we should perish far from home, in such great pain, our souls torn. Because...why? Because once upon a time, we did what we believed to be the most selfless, the only course of action? ShodYod is correct. Is that right? Is it just?” OkAc, suspecting he isn't being sought after for an answer, does not give one. “SkekSil...whatever becomes of you next, I hope you know that you have killed me...and I hope it haunts your every waking moment.”

OkAc places the cup of soaked herb before him – his favorite – and lets him absorb the steam. Waits patiently, strategically for him to finish half of it before venturing... “May I speak?”

He fully, fully expects the answer to be a resounding no, and thus is surprised when the Singer sighs and inclines his head in the affirmative. “Please do.”

“It is not their fault,” the Chronicler says gently. “You know this, yes?”

“With all respect intended, Chronicler, your dark half was not the Chamberlain. He would destroy me a thousand times over to save his own skin, a thousand more for the sheer glee of it.”

“Well...yes, in all likelihood. Yes. But I believe, in all academic sincerity, that even if the Skeksis had lay dormant, we could never have carried the weight of three beings forever.”

“Your belief, OkAc? Or your desire?” A small shower of light scatters like dust from his shoulders; as close to a derisive huff as any UrSkek will allow themselves to come. “I suppose it would be just our luck.”

“Oh no, not at all! Not luck, but the nature of things. A great loss and a frightening one for us, to be sure, but maybe, just perhaps, there may be a rhyme and reason yet.”

“Please clarify.”

“Finish your drink, if you will. And then come.”

SilSol does, setting it aside before they make their way down the hill, slowly, painfully. Into the garden, where OkAc draws down one of the great circular bulbs that line the tree, still bare from winter. The outer leaves so brown and brittle, they come away at the gentlest touch, which is all OkAc has the heart to inflict on them...and hidden beneath, handfuls of soft white fluff. And SilSol watches. Even before the Chronicler gently fans the seeds with his hand and sends them soaring on the wind, OkAc senses he understands.

“...I suspect...I know what you mean. But please, your own words, if you will grant them.”

“I wonder, in these final days, if we were not always meant to venture forth and dream of impossible things. If the division was not some tragic happenstance, some consequence of our own hubris, but a natural course of UrSkek existence we never even considered. Filling like these seed pods, and when the time is right, scattering to the winds to land where they may.”

“Our other halves massacred, enslaved entire races. Drained the life force from primitive children. If _that_ is the natural course of things, I would say that it is our responsibility, our very _duty_ to change it.”

“Our other halves were frightened and ultimately violent creatures. But they were also capable of great passion and innovation. I think that here, in this new world, things may be different still...and if not, they will destroy only themselves. But thrive or not, change will follow. And if my theory is correct, _that_ is the inevitable conclusion when ones such as ourselves make an end of it. In death, life. And a great flowering of change.”

He brushes the final, lingering tufts of seed fluff from his hands, and together, they watch them carried by the wind until their eyes can no longer follow.

“...Why we come into the world with two names,” speculates SilSol very quietly.

“Yes.”

“The last, great purpose our lives are leading towards.” He shakes his head. “But...such cold comfort to the seed pod.”

“...Indeed, my friend. Indeed.”

***

Throughout their final days, and even back in the hopeful ones, there was a great and recurring fear – so great that they scarcely dared speak of it – that it would come for them in turns. That they would wake some morning and find one of their own divided, without ever having had the chance to comfort them or bid them farewell...or perhaps worse still, that the moment would find some among them still strong, still healthy, still willing to fight where others no longer could.

But when the morning comes that they wake together to find the suns high and the pain at its worst, they realize that their worst fears, mercifully, have not come to pass. They know.

There is a final round of talk concerning the stars. Whether a Conjunction is needed; are they dividing or merely gathering around to die needlessly? And of course, there are the assurances, so familiar by now. But the point is moot. Whatever will be next is what will be.

They enfold each other in a last group embrace, tighter than ever before. The sentiment trickles between them like water, and there is no need to speak. They speak anyway.

“This is not farewell,” says UngIm. “I believe this with all my heart.”

“Just another journey forth,” says EktUtt, eyes flickering with a weak smile.

ShodYod sighs. “I do like the sound of that.”

“There are no beings I would sooner journey with,” says SilSol.

They gather slowly beside the Crystal, taking familiar places – old, and yet still so very new. All feel it when it comes, the soul-deep lurching of something deep within, as though sensing a change, reaching for the Crystal. It's a familiar feeling and an alarming one, but the light bathes them, soothing agonized cores for the first time in so many, many months. A final time, they feel as one the presence of the Crystal's pull...the pull that has bound them as Fallen UrSkeks, and forever will.

UngIm smiles.

“Onward, my most cherished ones.”

The light fills them.

There is no pain.

***

The split, this time, is not a clean one.

18 creatures lie crumpled on the ground, groaning with discomfort. Not as vibrant and new as they were at first creation; not as withered and slow as they were at the end. Attempting, with great effort, to raise their heads, to stand. Each one without success. Until...

A sobbing, ecstatic cry, followed almost instantaneously by a second, deeper one. SkekEkt and skekAyuk first crawling, then lurching onto teetering feet, then half running, half stumbling. Around the Crystal, around their prone fellows, staggering across a space that may as well amount to horizons, before collapsing, weeping, in one another's arms.

UrIm regards the Skeksis evenly.

“Well...I hope you're all very satisfied with yourselves.”

SkekUng, oblivious to the rather regal crest of silver feathers he now sports, hoists himself as high as his hands will allow and hisses.

“Weak, fat, stupid! Forced to send a Gelfling to strike us down! You talk of satisfied _!_ ”

“Couldn't kill us properly so you had to murder us _politely,_ ” skekNa spits, even while feeling for the place where his long lost eye has been miraculously recovered. His hand has not done the same.

“ _Stop it, all of you_ ” commands urZah in a voice that leaves little room for argument, though of course, argument will find a way. It nonetheless distracts both parties long enough for him to stand. “This is how we began the first time. It is _not_ how we begin again.”

“You give us orders, long face?” snarls skekUng, feathers bristling. “After all you have done?”

“SkekUng,” skekZok says, pushing himself to his feet out of the sheer necessity that is preventing the once Emperor from charging the Mystics where they stand. “Listen to me.”

“You side with _them?_ ”

“No. I side with reason.”

He makes his way across the circle and speaks to skekUng in a voice too low to be heard. All the while, the rest of the Skeksis and Mystics are clambering upwards, standing in the light of the new Crystal like Landstrider calves, shaking and confused. No one comments when urAmaj pads softly to stand beside urNol, or when a dazed looking skekSil lays a hand on the shoulder of a trembling skekShod, but they look up when the Ornamentalist extricates himself from skekAyuk's shoulder long enough to find his teary voice.

“I couldn't care less what any of you do, but if _any of you_ brings about the return of what we just came out of, I will devote every last ounce of my consciousness to taking you down with me.”

UrAc shakes out his mane. “Can you fault us for our caution? Can we be assured of our safety?”

“Can you?” skekOk replies nastily.

“ _No!_ Do you see, this? All of this? Absolutely not!” shouts the Gourmand, wiping his eyes. “Here's what we're going to do. _I'm_ going to cook and _you're_ all going to eat it. Alright? Yes! Good?” He glares about the circle, and the nods he receives are wide-eyed and unsure, but they're nods just the same, and it's the only thing the Skeksis and Mystics have agreed upon in well over 1000 trine. “ _Good._ ”

Off he storms, taking the Ornamentalist's claw as he goes.

SkekZok at last draws back from the Garthim-Master's side. SkekUng regards urZah through dangerous, narrowed eyes, but his teeth are covered.

“You want to talk, Mystic? Fine. _Talk._ ”

***

SkekAyuk has no knowledge of this planet's plant or animal life, and no expectation that the UrSkeks

will have a store neatly stocked with things a group of newly revived Skeksis and Mystics will happily eat. But there it is, dried meat and fish for the taking and abundant spring vegetables kept cool.

SkekEkt, assisting him and never far from his side, has no expectation that they will be joined by skekAyuk's Mystic counterpart, nor that skekAyuk will accept his offer of aid. And yet, all of a sudden, there he is, tearing lettuces while watching urAmaj the cook make flatcakes in silence.

No one has the expectation that over an impromptu Crystalside dinner, the Skeksis and Mystics will form a rough but promising plan for the future. And indeed, they do not.

But they agree not to harm one another. Not until they figure out where they are, and what's occurred.

“Every creature fears its own end,” urZah states. “Even the Dousan. We have lived a thousand trine in preparation for the day our own existences came to an end, all in the name of stopping you. We would just as soon live without the need to.”

SkekSil licks a skeptical claw. “So, then, Mystics will not harm Skeksis as long as Skeksis do not sustain selves from Crystal. _Just as long as Skeksis do as Mystics say._ Is that correct?”

“Do not harm the Crystal, do not harm the races of this planet. Yes.”

“We are young again,” SkekZok answers before his kind can grumble too loudly amongst themselves. “Strong, vital. I see no reason why we would need to partake of the Crystal. Not yet.”

The suns sink low, filling the room and refracting off the crystal walls until the world runs with pink and orange and liquid gold. Thoughts on sleeping arrangements are halted suddenly by the reedy voice of the Scroll-Keeper.

“Oh Thra...You all had better come and take a look at this.”

Both Skeksis and Mystic make their way to the highest wall, where the changing light has brought to full, vibrant notice the words etched there.

And together, they read.

_To those we have left behind,_

_If you are reading these words, we are no more for this life._

_After setting forth from Thra, it became clear that the prophecy was incorrect, or perhaps merely incomplete; what was sundered and undone cannot be made one again. Our own beings were not capable of sustaining three souls indefinitely. So it is that you carry on, and we must depart._

_We, in our arrogance, believed you no more than two halves of our own being made flesh. This too was in error. You are your own creatures, and your time is now._

_The planet you stand upon is new to us. If it has a name, we never learned it. If sentient creatures dwell upon it, we never succeeded in finding them. It was our last home, and our dearest home. And now, we leave it to you._

_The records in the archives and the memorial obelisk to the fallen are yours as well. The Crystal, though it belongs to the planet you stand upon, is at your mercy. Though what you choose to make of it, and this world, is your decision alone, it is our greatest hope that you will work together to achieve new and noble heights._

_For you are not, and have never been, our darknesses and light rent asunder. You are galaxies of things, some of which passed from us to you, some not. You are the lessons you have learned and the choices you have made, and will make. You simply are...and that, we have learned, is a most glorious thing indeed. Our final regret is that we will never have the opportunity to meet you ourselves._

_Skeksis. urRu. Our greatest legacy._

_Be kind, be well, and remember us. Care for the Crystal, and make your world in its light._

_Farewell._


End file.
